A Strange Place
by Omi-Omi
Summary: Companion piece to Four Seasons of Light and Day to Night, Night to Day. Spring and Summer, from Draco's POV. After the war, Draco works hard to build a new life. And then Potter turns everything upside down. HPDM pre-slash/slash short oneshot.


**A/N: **This is a sequel to _Day to Night. Night to Day, _which is itself a sequel to _Four Seasons of Light_. And by sequel I mean companion piece: it's the same story, told three ways. I would strongly suggest reading them in the correct order though (so starting with _Four Seasons of Light_). Just click onto my name and follow the links from my author profile. If you've already read the other two, I hope you enjoy this one.

I just wasn't ready to let go of these two yet, and Draco had his own tale to tell. I wrote this all in a rush one evening. I'd like to thank the wonderful **Evilgiraff82 **for being a great beta and with whom I share a mutual love of Draco. I urge you to check out her own HP/DM tale, _Untitled _– it's a lovely story.

I'm working on something new at the moment, which doesn't involve a single cherry tree, so maybe now I'm ready to move on. Anyway, here's a bit of Draco for you.

**Disclaimer: **The world of HP belongs to JKR. The cherry tree is mine.

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><p><strong>A Strange Place<strong>

Draco had felt out of place for much of his life. When he was a boy he had lived according to the cast-iron rules of his parents. Whenever he'd had a question about the world, it had been crushed out of him by the weight of centuries of tradition. He'd stopped trying to understand who he was, beyond being his father's son. During... the dark times... there was just fear. Terror. After the war, he'd fought hard to distance himself from his past and try to work out who he was, where he belonged.

Long ago, when he had still been in thrall to his father, Draco had dreamed of heaping glories on the name of Malfoy. When presented with the opportunity to do something 'great', he had failed miserably, to his ongoing relief. It was only in the cold dead of night that he let his mind wander to the dangerous ground of _what if he had succeeded. _He had learnt that glory, pureblood power and infamous acts were sometimes founded on fear, horror, and slavery. At the time he had barely been able to think for terror; after the Pathetic Lord had died, he'd experienced disgust, revulsion, for so much of what he'd blindly believed, for his life up to that point.

Sitting alone, frightened then disillusioned after the trials, Draco had time to reflect on if not _who_ he was, at least who he was not, and perhaps who he wanted to be. He decided that he wanted to do something no Malfoy had done before. He wanted to show the world that he chose Light, that he was not his father. He would work, he would earn his way in life. And maybe one day someone would look him in the eyes and see him. Not a Death Eater, not a Malfoy. Just him.

So he decided to become an Auror. After all, he could offer a unique insight. He also, in his most private thoughts, took pleasure in the thought of chasing down the kind of people who had made his youth such a terrifying place. He didn't have his NEWTs, so he studied privately and was quietly proud to get all E and Os. He applied to join the training programme, but it soon became clear that perhaps the world wasn't really ready for a reformed Draco Malfoy, as his first application was rejected. And his second, and then his third. After that, Draco gave up and tried to find some other way to gain some credibility.

Giving in to the inevitable, he married. His mother was happy - as she should have been, as she selected Astoria herself. Good on paper. He found a low level Ministry job and worked hard. He watched as time after time others took the credit for his achievements. He still worked on, pushing himself further and further. It was no wonder his marriage had begun to fail, the hours he worked. Well, that and the fact he didn't love his wife or even find women in general that attractive.

One day, he had resigned himself to the fact that he really couldn't continue to live the lie of his marriage, and had gone home and had that quiet but difficult talk with a pale and stiff Astoria. They finished things quietly, with dignity. Secretly he hoped she was relieved: he certainly was. They'd had such little contact in marriage that it wasn't much different without her, and he would often forget that he had ever been married. Ending the marriage also proved to be a final break with the expectations of his parents, and although he ended up living at the Manor again, he knew that their hold on him was over.

Eventually, people in the ministry began to seek him out. He was involved in strategy, planning. He liked to think his ideas were respected. No one would let him out in the field though and they always had vague reasons, behind which Draco could clearly see the words Death Eater and Dark Mark. Still, as Draco gained some confidence in himself at work, he saw that what he had earned was his alone, but that no one was ever going to give him more than that. Whether or not he was married had no significance beyond the whispers in a few bored and stilted pureblood homes. And working with a mix of purebloods and Muggle-borns had made him realise that there really was more to life than the narrow social code he had grown up with.

Of course, it was just perfect that when he did finally make it as an Auror, it was with the caveat that Potter was to be his partner. Harry bloody Potter. The one person he really didn't want to be with. How could he get away from his past while working with the Boy who Lived Twice? How could he ever escape the lingering Death Eater questions while working with Voldemort's Vanquisher?

The world is a strange place though, and things change.

The first time he realised that he trusted Potter was the day that they were out, chasing down some twenty year old idiot who thought he was a Dark wizard, willing to use some pretty Dark magic for petty gains. As they were running down a back alley somewhere in Bath, they found themselves blocked in by a dead end. Potter was the one who saved them, who got them out – he was in his element, a man of action. Draco froze, just for a moment, when he rounded the corner and found himself at the wrong end of a wand. Harry called out a warning and pulled him out of the line of fire, whilst simultaneously blasting back a quick succession of spells with his other hand. Draco had found himself flung back against a wall, panting and flushed with adrenaline. When Harry had shouted out to restrain the reckless youth in front of them, Draco had cast his _incarcerous _without question. At that moment, Draco realised that he could trust Potter with his life. That he did already. The sight of Harry, leaping, wand arm confident and sure, eyes flashing, stayed with Draco for a long time.

It was inevitable, perhaps, but the day came when he realised that maybe he was growing to like Potter too. It was things like that stupid plant of his. Potter obviously didn't have a clue how to care for it, and the leaves were looking a little forlorn, browning at the edges. Still, every day he watered the plant and regarded it with sad eyes. He just wouldn't give up on it, and Draco found himself admiring such hopeless tenacity. Not that he'd ever admit it.

Also, sparring with Potter every day helped keep him cheerful. It certainly stopped him from being bored. For the first time in years, perhaps since as far back as Hogwarts, Draco felt he was being treated as himself. He didn't have to hide who he was, pretend to always be grateful, sorry. No one was tiptoeing around him, or making snap judgements. Instead, Potter would needle him in the most immature and obvious ways. It was all so transparent, so honest. Nothing like purebloods dancing around the truth at every occasion, nothing like whispers behind his back in the department either.

It was reassuring to fall back on the sneers of his youth: it had been a simpler time, in some ways, when he still lived with the certainty of his superiority. He didn't believe that any more, but it still felt good to be just Malfoy and Potter again. They had great fun, winding each other up. Draco found some aspects of the job stressful, especially waiting around, and Potter seemed to know just when to diffuse some tension with a childish prank or by starting a silly argument.

They were more than their schoolboy selves of course, and Draco was secretly warmed by the way that Potter would still bring him coffee, even when he was being annoying, or that Potter could put whatever little insults they'd shared that morning behind them if something came up in a case. Over time, he noticed how Potter was also invariably polite to him when they talked to people while making enquiries, and Draco knew it made a difference in how he was treated. A year into their partnership and things had settled into a familiar pattern all their own, in which neither would let the other become too self-absorbed or distracted from work. It wasn't exactly orthodox, but it worked.

Draco didn't realise how he'd come to rely on Potter until the bewildering days he experienced in the wake of his partner's disappearance. One day, Draco woke up in St Mungo's, to see his mother at his side, face drawn. The last thing he remembered was going out with Potter, following some lead. Then... red light and... and pain. He couldn't remember much more. He looked down, saw new scars crossing old. He sighed. And to think of the pride he'd taken in his unmarked alabaster skin when he was younger. He shook his head at the vain and trivial follies of his youth.

When Draco returned to work a few days later, he was surprised to find Potter absent from the office. Asking around, no one had seen him – they'd assumed he was waiting for his partner to return. Draco then had the most bizarre day of his life, with no fewer than four Weasleys firecalling to demand if he knew where Potter was or what was 'up' with him. It was most puzzling. He did not like not knowing or understanding what was happening, and resented the implication that somehow it was his fault. His mood worsened throughout the day, and his responses became terser and ruder each time someone enquired as to Potter's whereabouts.

While Draco waited for Potter to reappear, he tried to get on with his work. However, he found it impossible to concentrate without his partner to bounce ideas off, and as for going out... Malfoy realised that he didn't feel safe without Potter by his side. Merlin, this was ridiculous! In the end he resorted to contacting Granger-Weasel-Granger, or whatever she called herself these days. She looked strained, but finally admitted that Harry was at his London home (Potter had a London home?), and was not very well. As in something was wrong with him. She seemed very uncomfortable talking to Draco. She skirted around saying the actual words, but it sounded as if Potter was in the middle of some kind of stress-induced break-down. Before he closed down the floo connection, Draco asked where this house was. The answer surprised him. Potter apparently, was at the old Black house, which an irritated Granger-Weasel had explained he'd inherited from his godfather, Sirius Black.

Irrationally annoyed that Potter had not told him about the house, even though it was the kind of personal information they didn't share with each other, Draco spent the rest of the day sitting in their office, deciding what to do. It didn't help, and in the end he went home and snapped at his mother, who then sat icily and refused to talk to him for the rest of the evening. The next day, he arrived at the office with hopes of either seeing Potter sitting there, ridiculously relaxed as usual, or being able to just catch up with some reports. The room was empty, and he was unsettled by the sense of absence surrounding him, unable to work despite the mounting pile of untouched files on his desk. He sat, brooding over his restlessness. Finally, Draco leant back in his chair and closed his eyes, willing himself still.

His mind began to calm. He breathed in slowly, picturing a blank whiteness in place of his whirling thoughts. Despite his attempts, an image formed – the moment of being cursed, the last time he'd seen Potter. The memory took shape, clearer than it had before, and he remembered all of a sudden the crushing second of sadness before he had lost consciousness. He'd seen the red light rushing towards him, then looked at Potter. He had felt a wave of regret wash through him: regret that things weren't _different_ with Potter. He wanted to be _closer_ to the man. Then all he had known was a flash of pain and darkness.

Shaken by the memory, confused and feeling the need to do _something, _Draco apparated straight to Grimmauld Place. There were wards up on the house, but as a Black - by blood if not by name - it wasn't too difficult to get past them. The house was miserable inside. Everything was dark and it had obviously been lying empty for years.

He made his way through the depressing rooms, searching for Potter. He found him in a disgusting bedroom, unwashed and stinking and still in bed. Anger drove him to shout at Potter, to try somehow to shake him from his torpor. The sight of him, so pathetic and broken, was so awful that the anger quickly changed to something else. Defeat.

The force of it actually knocked him down. Draco sat on the filthy floor of the bedroom. His head in his hands, it came to him, so clearly: he needed Potter. Needed him to be there in his life. With him there Draco knew who he was. Without him, everything just seemed... empty.

Somehow he persuaded Potter to get out of bed, to have a shower. When Potter climbed out of bed and stood before him though, he suddenly became uncomfortably aware that the man was practically naked. He stood, bare-chested. He was looking thin, thinner than Draco remembered him. He frowned. How long had Potter been holed up in this dump? Had Potter eaten anything in that time? Draco tried to look more closely at the other man. He noticed the firm lines of his shoulders, the round scar on his chest, the hair trailing down his stomach. For the first time, he noticed that he was looking at a _man_. Draco felt weak. He liked the look of this man, filthy and undernourished as he was. This man meant so much to him. He swallowed. This man's physicality meant so much to him.

He tried to calm down while rooting around for something to drink in the kitchen downstairs. In the end he found some coffee and a coffee pot. Heating the water, he hunted out some mugs and gave them a rinse. Then, desperate for some fresh air, he managed to unlock and push open the door to the small courtyard outside. In the centre of the courtyard was a medium-sized tree. Draco walked up to it and ran his fingers down the trunk. It was a cherry tree. He stood there, drinking his coffee, waiting for Potter... Harry. Maybe they needed to start again, actually be friends. They needed each other, that much was clear.

Draco was both relieved and elated when Harry accepted his hand, unlike the first time he'd offered it all those years ago. This time, they would be friends. This time they were ready to be friends.

Unable to stay away, Draco came back every day in his lunch hour. Worried about Harry's thin frame, he'd bring the most tempting lunches that he could find – things which were hot, easy to eat, filling. They barely spoke to each other, but Draco hoped desperately that somehow he could bring Harry back. His Harry. He was just lost, floundering away in the darkness.

It wasn't until Harry started to clean the house and paint every room in it white that Draco started to see some chance of Harry returning to him. He also insisted on cooking with Draco, who found to his surprise that he loved it. Coming by each weekend and cooking a big meal also helped reassure him that Harry was eating more. He began to talk to Harry, really talk to him. It was the first time he'd ever really let someone get to know him, and he realised that maybe it wasn't just Harry getting to know him: he was too.

The hours spent with Harry were the only ones which meant anything to Draco. Work had lost its interest, and he was happy when Kingsley gently suggested he return to his work as an analyst. _For now,_ he'd said, but Draco knew he wouldn't return to the field if Harry didn't. And he couldn't see Harry returning. He'd changed. His actions, which had defined him before, were now more thoughtful and focused, but also perhaps more limited. Harry seemed to take the time to think about what he did rather than just rely on his instincts as he had before. He seemed a little less sure, a little more fragile.

Slowly, it began to dawn on Draco that he felt more than simply _like _for Harry. Being close to him was bringing a whole new set of feelings to the fore. Draco felt safe and warm when they were together. He also had to admit to himself that he wanted, more and more, to deepen those feelings by _touching_ Harry. He would lie in his room at Malfoy Manor, and imagine reaching out past the kitchen table, running a hand along Harry's leg, up his thigh, warm and solid beneath his fingers. He would try to guess how Harry's mouth would taste, how his skin would smell. In the dark of the night, as he groaned and held and stroked his own erection, he would think of how Harry's would feel in his hand, hot and heavy. As he came, it was often with Harry's name on his lips. His dreams were full of dark hair, green eyes, sweaty t-shirts.

Draco was scared though. Scared of rejection, scared of losing the precious friendship they were building, scared of somehow harming Harry while he was so fragile. At the same time he could sense that he was being built into Harry's new world, that he was important. The tension between them grew like vines around friendship, furtive glances, accidental touches, _like_; the joy of snapping sometimes, just to see the other snap back with a spark in his eyes.

In the end though, the heat between them became overwhelming, and all he could see was Harry, all he could sense next to him was Harry, and Draco couldn't help but reach out, breath held, and actually touch Harry. He was trembling as he reassured a scared Harry that this was what he wanted, speaking with more confidence than he felt, in the hope that Harry felt it too. To Draco's astonishment, Harry touched back, with matching tenderness, desperation and passion. As they kissed, the world groaned and heaved and righted itself. As they laughed and smiled they suddenly saw every bit of light in the world flash around them. As they finally, finally, ran their hands over each other, leaving trails of flames, as Draco found how Harry felt and tasted and smelled and devoured him, as they found a blinding, all-consuming release, Draco knew that he was home.

The world indeed was a strange, and wonderful place.


End file.
